DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) (112 page)

Normally Jilseponie would have refused, for she had never been much of a
drinker. She understood the significance of Bretherford’s actions, though. The man was offering her a chance for a private, person-to-person and not duke-to-queen, conversation.

She nodded and took the glass of wine, bringing it up and taking a small sip, her eyes locked on Bretherford, who nearly drained his own glass in one gulp.

“Bah, but I should be savoring it, I know,” he admitted.

“You have nothing to be nervous about, Duke Bretherford,” Jilseponie said. “You are uncomfortable around me, and have been since you arrived in Palmaris, and I am curious to know why.”

“No, m’lady, nothing like that.”

Jilseponie scowled at him. “Do not play me for the fool,” she said. “Your attitude toward me has surely shifted, and to the negative. Am I not even entitled to know why? Or am I supposed to guess?”

Bretherford finished his drink and poured another.

“Anything that you say now remains strictly between us,” Jilseponie assured him, for she could see that he wanted to tell her something.

“Not many in Ursal envied me this voyage,” Bretherford said quietly.

“The journey can be long and arduous,” said Jilseponie.

“Because of you,” Bretherford finished. “Not many were thrilled that I was sailing north to retrieve Lady Jilseponie. Some even hinted that I should toss you into the Masur Delaval long before we ever came within sight of Ursal’s docks.”

That admission stunned Jilseponie.

“You said that this discussion was between us, and in that context, I can speak candidly,” the Duke went on.

“Please do.”

“Few in the court at Ursal are delighted that King Danube is marrying a peasant,” Bretherford explained. “I discount not your heroics,” he quickly added, holding up his hand to stop Jilseponie, who was about to retort, “in the war and fighting the plague. That was many years ago, and the memories of the people are short, I fear.”

“The memories of the noblewomen, you mean,” Jilseponie remarked, and Bretherford tipped his glass to her.

“The place of queen is always reserved for women of noble birth,” he replied, “for the virginal daughters of dukes or barons or other court nobility.”

“Yet it is the King’s prerogative to choose,” said Jilseponie.

“Of course,” Bretherford admitted. “But that little changes the reality of what you will face in Ursal. The noblewomen will scorn your every step, wishing that it was they who walked on the arm of King Danube. Even the peasants—”

“The peasants?” Jilseponie interrupted. “What do you know of us, Duke Bretherford?”

“I know that few will greet you with the tolerance that you have found here in the north,” the man went on, undeterred. “Oh, the peasant women will love you at first, seeing you as the realization of a dream that is common throughout the
kingdom, the dream of all the peasant girls that the King will fall in love with them and elevate them to the status of nobility. But that same source of their initial love for you may well turn into jealousy. Beware your every move, Bishop Jilseponie,” he said candidly. “For they, all of them, will judge you, and harshly, if you err.”

The man was obviously rattled then, by the sound of his own words, and he gulped down his second glass of boggle, breathing hard.

He believed that he had overstepped his boundaries, despite the claim that this was a private conversation, Jilseponie knew. He expected that she would hate him forever after, perhaps even that she would enlist Danube against him, covertly if not overtly. In truth, Jilseponie was a bit taken aback, a bit angry, and that emotion was indeed initially aimed at Duke Bretherford. But when she considered his words, she found that she could not disagree with his assessment.

“Thank you,” she said, and the man looked at her in surprise. “You have spoken honestly to me, and that, I fear, is something I will not often find at King Danube’s court.”

“Rare indeed,” the Duke agreed, and he seemed to relax a bit.

“As for our relationship, I ask only that you judge me fairly,” Jilseponie went on. “Allow me the chance to prove my value to King and country as queen. Judge me as you would one of those noble daughters.”

Bretherford didn’t answer, other than to hold the bottle of boggle toward her.

Jilseponie toasted him with her glass, drained it, and then presented it for refill.

She left Bretherford’s cabin soon after, thinking that this had not been a bad start to their relationship—and in truth, though they had known each other for more than a decade, this really was the start of any relationship between them, for this was the only honest exchange the pair had ever shared. Jilseponie believed that she had made an ally, and she feared she would need many of those at King Danube’s hostile court.

No, not an ally, she realized as she considered again the words and movements of Duke Bretherford. But at least, she believed, she could now count on the man to treat her honestly.

That was more than she expected she would find from many others at Danube’s snobbish, exclusive court.

R
iver Palace
sailed into Ursal harbor to great fanfare and cheering, with throngs gathered to greet the woman who would become their queen. Given the exuberance, the sheer glee, it was hard for Jilseponie to keep in mind the warnings of Duke Bretherford. But only for that short, overwhelming moment when first she viewed the passionate people. For she had learned much in her life, and Jilseponie knew that the greater the passion, the easier and the greater the turn. As she stepped onto the gangplank and looked out over the crowd, she imagined the cheering and beaming smiles transformed into screaming and ugly grimaces. In truth, it did not seem to be so much of a stretch.

In addition, there were two standing among the nobles at the dock who reinforced
the Duke’s dire words—the two, Jilseponie reasoned, who had already spoken ill of her to Bretherford, who had likely helped change his attitude toward her.

Constance Pemblebury and Duke Targon Bree Kalas flanked King Danube, as always; their proximity to the man who would be her husband brought little hope to Jilseponie. She could see through the phony smiles stamped upon their faces, could hear the anger in their every hand clap. Constance in particular held Jilseponie’s gaze with her own, and Jilseponie could not miss the hatred in the woman’s eyes.

She debarked
River Palace
, smiling and waving, with Duke Bretherford’s words resonating clearly in her mind.

Her first step onto Ursal’s dock, she realized even as she took it, was the beginning of a very trying road.

Chapter 14
 

M
ARCALO
D
E
’U
NNERO STOOD AND STARED AT THE DISTANT TOWN FOR A LONG
, long while. He and Sadye had come to this region, farther south than Micklin’s Village, for the winter, hoping for milder weather. They had survived fairly well over the last few months, and in truth, it had been an existence far less stressful than any De’Unnero had known in the last decade. He did not deny the weretiger now, nor did Sadye utilize her soothing, magical music to keep the beast within, for that was beyond her talents. She did not fear the beast but, rather, welcomed it. “What better way to hunt?” she often prompted De’Unnero whenever he expressed doubts about letting the beast come forth.

In fact, over the last couple of months, with Sadye’s help, the former monk had come to see his affliction as something completely different. Rather than a curse, was it possible that the weretiger was a blessing, a way for De’Unnero to more powerfully carry out the way of God, the often violent path of righteousness? De’Unnero still wasn’t certain if he quite believed that, or if he only claimed to believe it to hide his real fears that he had become a demonic creature. With Sadye, though, and her soothing, gem-encrusted instrument, De’Unnero was now seeing a different side of the weretiger, a more controlled violence.

Sadye had no trouble playing and singing a magically enhanced song to turn De’Unnero’s tiger’s eyes away from her and out into the forest for more acceptable game.

The pair had not gone hungry that winter.

Despite all of that, despite even his growing hope, if not belief, that there might be a blessing to be found beneath the tearing claws of the tiger, despite all the assurances of Sadye that she, with her instrument, could control the creature, the weight of this next step they had decided to take settled uneasily onto Marcalo De’Unnero’s shoulders. He looked at the village on the hill before him and he saw so many similarities to Micklin’s Village. He could foresee the blood splashing against the walls, painting them red. He could see the people milling about the village now, including women and children, and he could well imagine their screams.…

Another image assaulted De’Unnero. After he and Sadye had made love one night not long before, he sat by their campfire, stoking the flames, and Sadye sat behind him, plucking a simple, sweet tune on her lute. It had been peaceful and beautiful, and then De’Unnero had caught the scent of a hunted deer, had heard the howls of the wolves pursuing the doomed animal. Before he had even known what was happening, De’Unnero felt the emergence of the weretiger, the primal beast coming to the call of the primal hunt.

He remembered that feeling, that hunger, now, and keenly. He remembered turning on Sadye as she sat there, her naked skin hardly covered by the blanket thrown around her shoulders, the lute held before her. How easy it would have been for him to rend the flesh from her bones! To tear lines in her so that he could drink her warm and sweet blood! As tough and composed as ever, Sadye had stared him down, had played those soothing notes on her lute, and had joined the melody with her own calming voice. And she had turned the weretiger away, had sent the beast off to join in the hunt for the deer. Despite her surprise, which she had later admitted, that the weretiger had emerged so quickly and unexpectedly, Sadye had fended him off.

But, De’Unnero understood—and this was the most poignant and troubling thing to him at that moment as he stared at the distant village—Sadye had not, had never, been able to help him suppress the weretiger. Once the beast emerged, only the satiation of its murderous hunger, no easy thing, seemed to allow Marcalo De’Unnero to regain full control.

In the face of that awful truth, that one nagging reminder to De’Unnero that this was indeed a curse and no blessing, what benefit might Sadye’s song offer to the helpless folk of that village, should the weretiger emerge?

“It will work,” Sadye said to him, coming up beside him and squeezing his upper arm, resting her head on his shoulder. “You must trust in me, my love.”

Her last two words struck De’Unnero profoundly.
My love
. Never had he expected to hear such words from a woman! He had entered St.-Mere-Abelle at the age of twenty, dedicating himself to the Order while fully expecting and accepting the rule of celibacy. To his surprise, the secret life of many of the Abellican monks had been far from celibate, and De’Unnero had heard stories of their dalliances with whores on occasion. He knew, though, that those affairs had never been anything akin to love. It had been a physical coupling only, a release and relief, and nothing more.

So he had believed it might be with Sadye after their first few, almost vicious, sessions of lovemaking. She was full of fire and passion, her eyes sparkling, her body reaching out hungrily for his.

She was also possessed of so many other qualities, De’Unnero had learned, of tenderness and reflection, of an almost brutally honest assessment of the failings of the world around them, and, most appealing of all to De’Unnero, of vulnerability. Sadye was as tough as anyone he had ever known. But she had let him into her heart, had let him see her at her most vulnerable and open. Yes, their lovemaking had been just that, a sharing and an openness that Marcalo De’Unnero had never before known and had believed could be achieved only in the deepest of prayers to God.

His love now was secular, but in many ways, it seemed to De’Unnero to be a more spiritual experience than anything he had ever known at St.-Mere-Abelle.

Together, hand in hand, they went into the hamlet, Tuber’s Creek by name.

F
estertool was buzzing with excitement when Aydrian came in one summer morning, a slain deer draped across his uncannily strong shoulders. He hadn’t visited the town often over the last few weeks, but never, not even when he had first come to Festertool, had he witnessed such excitement.

“Bah, but he’s bringing a deer,” cackled one old man, one of Rumpar’s cronies who had been in the private room when Aydrian had won the use of the sword. “And wit’ all them better tings fer killing!”

Aydrian looked at the old man curiously, not beginning to understand what he might be chattering about.

“Are ye gonna kill ’em?” a young boy asked, running right up to Aydrian and pulling hard on the fraying bottom of his dark brown tunic.

Aydrian looked at the boy. “Kill who?”

“Nikkye, come here now and don’t be botherin’ that one!” the boy’s mother yelled from a nearby porch.